The soldier who had acted as
cook was directed to put the dining-room back in order and then he might
sleep in a room near the kitchen.
Dick and Warner returned to their own apartment. Neither had much to say,
and Warner, lying down on the bed, was soon fast asleep. Dick sat by the
window. The town was now almost lost in the obscurity. The exhausted
army slept, and the occasional glitter from the bayonet of a sentinel was
almost the only thing that told of its presence.
Dick was troubled. In spite of will and reason, his conscience hurt him.
Theory was beautiful, but it was often shivered by practice. His
sympathies were strongly with the old colonel who had cursed him so
violently and the grim old maid who had given them only harsh words.
Besides, he had pleasant memories of Victor Woodville, and these were his
uncle and cousin.
He sat for a long time at the window. The house was absolutely quiet,
and he was sure that everybody was asleep. There could be no doubt about
Warner, because he slumbered audibly. But Dick was still wide awake.
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